


Drunk and Disorderly

by whatdoyouthinkmyjobis



Series: Bobby Singer: The Stanford Years [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Feels, Family Loss, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mild Language, Parental Bobby Singer, Sexism, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4554414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatdoyouthinkmyjobis/pseuds/whatdoyouthinkmyjobis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Officer Mills arrests Bobby Singer for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk and Disorderly

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Sioux Falls in 2002.

Unlike most of the drunks Officer Mills picked up, Bobby Singer neither took a swing nor a pass at her. No _Le’go-a-me, ya bitch!_ No _Who ordered a stripper? Shake it, Officer sexy!_ When she showed up to collect him at Last Stop, the sticky dive of a trucker bar out by the interstate, he slid off his stool and followed her out the door.

“Do you know why I’m talking to you, Mr. Singer?”

Keeping his eyes obscured with his greasy ball cap, he guessed, “You want my cranberry scone recipe?” His voice was clear despite the heavy stink of gin wafting from his breath. Bobby Singer may be a drunk, but he was an expert drunk.

“Cute. Empty your pockets.”

“Got a pretty big pocket knife.”

“We’ll start with that.” He unloaded on the hood of her car one large pocket knife with a hand-carved wooden handle, a smaller Swiss army knife, a driver’s license (he looked older than fifty-two), a stubby pencil, a few business cards for local garages, a couple crumpled dollars, and a few worn photographs. She picked up a picture of two handsome teenage boys, the tall blonde one had his arm wrapped around the shoulder of a shorter, shaggy-haired boy. They were both grinning from ear to ear, not a photo cheese smile, but a genuine loving smile at whoever was behind the camera.

“Those your sons?” she asked. Ignoring her question, Bobby crossed his arms and looked down the road as if something was coming.

After double checking with the bartender that this was indeed the raging drunk he’d called about, Jody drove him back to the station, all the while Bobby muttered to himself, “Lost’ em. Lost ‘em.” She didn’t bother to cuff him for the ride, sad old coot that he was, but made him ride in the back nonetheless.

She did cuff him once they got to the station, knowing that Officer Zimmerman would spring at the opportunity to bust her chops for ignoring protocol. Not that he cared about protocol, but he loved to make her look bad. “Sorry about this, Mr. Singer.”

“Ain’t gotta be sorry for me, kid,” he grumbled.

“Hey, Bobby,” said Officer Claire St. Johns at the booking desk. Claire was Jody’s favorite cop, a desk jockey of twenty years who knew all the ins-and-outs of paperwork and evidence. Many cases wouldn’t have been tried if it wasn’t for her vigilance with what a lot of the other cops thought was pointless bureaucracy. “Were you scarin’ people again?”

“I take it he’s a regular?” asked Jody. She was only a few months out of the Academy, and while she’d grown up in Sioux Falls, she was surprised every day to learn more of its secrets.

“We see Bobby a few times a year. He’s a high functioning alcoholic, but he’ll go on benders and scare a bunch of folks.”

“They should be scared!” Bobby snapped. “You don’t know what’s out there!” Even though his face was carved with worry and fear, he still didn’t struggle. Seeing that no one cared what was out there, his shoulders slumped and he hung his head in defeat.

Curls bobbing around her face, Claire shook her head sympathetically. “We don’t book him unless he’s packing. He’s harmless otherwise. Just throw him in a cell to sleep it off. Someone will take him home in the morning.”

“Okay, thanks a ton, Claire.”

“Uh-huh. Remember, you owe me brownies for every favor.”

“I’ll push you past three-hundred pounds in thank yous!”

“Sounds good to me.”

It was past midnight, and the station was quiet. Most of the night shift officers were out on patrol, but Zimmerman was at his desk shooting rubber bands at a hooker Officer Black Fox was trying to process. Jody tried to hurry past him, but he shifted his eyes just enough from the prostitute’s cleavage to notice her. He stood up and announced, “Whoa! Hey guys, Officer Baby Mills caught herself a career criminal!”

“Shut it, Zimmerman!”

“No, seriously, Jody, do you know who this is? It’s Bobby Singer, vampire slayer! Ain’t that right, Bobby?”

The old man refused to look at the laughing cop, but she heard him mutter, “Vampires are extinct, you dumbass.”

“What’s he in for tonight? Did he shoot the family dog and say he saved them from a werewolf? Oh, I know! Demons. I bet it was demons. He talks about demons a lot when he gets wasted.”

“He actually does,” Black Fox reluctantly corroborated before taking the prostitute to an interrogation room.

“It doesn’t matter, Zimmerman, okay? Mr. Singer just needs to sleep it off.”

“Mr. Singer? Jods, don’t be polite about this son of a bitch. You’re going to pick him up a lot. All the guy has is booze and scrap. It’s pathetic. Heard he had a wife at one point, but she realized what a loser he was and ran off.”

Bobby, his face red with fury and drink, twisted out of Jody’s grasp and lunged at Zimmerman. He knocked the officer to the floor with his shoulder and kicked him in the back screaming, ‘You don’t know jack shit about Karen. Don’t you ever talk about her!”

In a matter of seconds, Jody and Black Fox pulled Bobby off of Zimmerman and cuffed him to a chair. “You saw that! You both saw that!” he yelled, patting his bloody lip. “Your ass is grass, Singer. Assaulting an officer. You’re doing time.”

“I didn’t see anything,” said Black Fox before returning to the interrogation room.

Zimmerman looked to Jody, who just shrugged with wide-eyes innocence, before storming off to file a complaint with Claire.

Jody turned back to her drunk and disorderly. “Mr. Singer, are you calm now?”

“I ain’t never calm. Calm gets ya killed.”

“Not a Buddhist then. Okay, if I uncuff you from the chair, will you promise me that you won’t hit that asshole over there?” she asked, pointing at Zimmerman flailing by an unsympathetic Claire. “By the way, thank you for hitting that asshole. Best part of my week.”

“I promise.”

Jody uncuffed Bobby and lead him to a cell where he laid on the bed arms crossed as if he planned to have a staring contest with the night. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You can do whatever you want,” he said.

“What did you lose?”

The old man turned to look at her, his eyes heavy with sadness. “You got a family?” he asked.

“A husband, Sean. We were married little over a year ago.” She didn’t tell him she was also six weeks pregnant.

“Well, I don’t,” he growled before rolling back toward the wall and pulling his cap over his eyes.


End file.
